


An Unsteady Equilibrium

by taydev



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Face-Fucking, Fisting, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Possessive Winter Soldier, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Torture, asset steve rogers, dry-fucking, dub-con, his chewtoy, his plaything, implied brainwashing, steve is the asset's reward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taydev/pseuds/taydev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months in captivity feel like an eternity. Seventy years on ice had felt like a good night’s rest in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unsteady Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the HTP book. Thanks to [kaasknot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/) for the beta work.

“Perhaps it’s time to officially rekindle the old friendship. What do you say, Captain Rogers?”

A while back, any word spoken by Pierce would have stopped the world on its axis, but now Steve lays passively. Several months in captivity feel like an eternity. Seventy years on ice had felt like a good night’s rest in comparison.

The agony in the snap of his own bones and raw sting of open flesh are now commonplace. He’s almost gotten used to the electric shock of a stun baton, and to the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat merged with every operative’s pungent seed coating his tongue. He hasn’t even been peeled completely out of his stealth suit, all stained with dried blood, tacky and caked with semen, tattered in all the places he’s been used. Barely a scrap of his dignity remains.

What he hasn’t gotten used to is the excruciating zaps to his head and the shell of his old friend. Of Bucky. They’ve stripped away his dignity, but Steve will be damned before he lets them take Bucky’s name.

Bucky doesn’t speak much around him, Steve notes. There are brief, sporadic commands, but beyond that, Bucky’s silence has been cold and rigid throughout the duration of Steve’s capture. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Bucky is here and Steve isn’t left alone with his echoing thoughts.

His face is unbearably squeezed between the cage’s bars as Bucky thrusts into his mouth. His neck aches, head tilted back by the scalp-tearing grip of metal when Bucky pulses hard into Steve’s parched mouth. He swallows most of the come, but enough escapes the corner of his lips to leave a messy trail down his jaw. This time, Bucky helps Steve wash it down. Bucky zips up then worms a rod speared into a sopping sponge through the cage and forcefully nudges it at Steve’s chapped lips. Sometimes when they are alone, there’s a semblance of his old friend, the friend who gave him all the care and consideration in the world, Steve thinks. The water is lukewarm with a gut-churning taste. Steve sucks it down with a noisy slurp and catches Pierce in his peripheral, looking on through a large window above, while sipping his own cool glass of water before ambling out of view.

Everything Pierce does is with purpose. Steve remembers when Pierce had offered him ice water from a glass, and he had spit every drop of it on the Secretary’s face in irate defiance. Unruffled, Pierce had calmly patted his face dry with a handkerchief, then ordered a medic to sedate him, and STRIKE to cripple him, before departing the cell. Steve doesn’t remember what happened immediately after, but injections with immobilizing agents became an increasing regularity ever since.

Now the cage ascends and Steve tucks his legs to his chest, dazedly staring down. Bucky is getting smaller, shrinking in the sizable, ill-lit cell, and the memory of his shrill cry rings loudly in Steve’s mind until it wanes, then replays.

Bucky fell. Bucky died. Or it would have been kinder if he had. Steve couldn’t pry Bucky from Pierce’s hold, no matter what he said. After all his efforts, he slipped away every time, and Hydra’s insidious spread now has them both in their life-crushing maw.

The room, grey and nondescript, goes dark, illuminated only by the flecks of light lining the walls from the banks of machines, and Steve is left interrogating the contents of his mind.

It is a far cry from anything he had envisioned. They were never overprotective of each other, never held each other back, but in retrospect, maybe it would have been for the better. If only he had insisted on Bucky’s honorable discharge, his return to safety and into the arms of his family, he’d have had more time to stuff his cheeks with his ma’s pot pie, and live the full live he deserved.

There was a time when Steve thought he could protect anyone.

 

~~~~

 

Steve wakes in a haze, blood coursing like fire through his veins, yet his limbs feel like sludge. The persistent pounding in his head sends a faint reminder of something...something dark and violent. A memory tries to tear itself loose, struggling to run rampant, and he doesn’t have the strength to suppress it.

Hulking restraints encircle his ankles and wrists, cutting his circulation. His skin is sticky against the leather and a pang of discomfort beats at his shoulder when he tries to sit up. It was to serve as a reminder, someone had said. He can’t remember who said it, who pinned his arm and dislocated it. Maybe one did the talking while another did the crippling. Every twinge in his body and every one of his assailants have fused. Maybe it was--

Security doors part and a voice thick with fury immediately projects into the cell, severing his stream of thought. “Swear to fucking god, if the fucking asshat compromises another operation I’ll fry his brain to ashes my damn self.” A group of agents, mostly clad in black and one in white, trail behind. Steve can barely make out the entering figures through his swimming vision, but instinct tells him a mission has gone belly-up and that he’s been acquainted with this particular group before.

The lead agent turns sharply to stand nose to nose with another who has just paced into the room, the gleam of his metal arm blinks in an out of view, and apparently he’s the subject of the lead agent’s raging disapproval.

“I’ve had enough of your goddamn antics,” the angry agent hisses. Everything is still a blur, but Steve can suss that both men’s fists are balled tightly and their entire bearing is disgruntled.

The standoff ends when the lead agent flicks his fingers to the others behind them, and as one they descend on the metal-armed man. The fight is short but brutal, and ends with his metal arm cuffed to the steel wall. The man growls at the lead agent, tugging uselessly at the thick magnetic cuff, even though Steve thinks he could break it easily. But as Steve’s vision clears he sees something fearful and cowed in his expression.

A strangely familiar image seeps into Steve’s frazzled mind. There was footage. Hours upon hours of footage of the man with the metal arm being tortured, emitting broken cries for help, until the volley of pleas fell silent to muffled obstinate grunts as time went on. He remembers sitting in a darkened room, his fist pressed against his mouth to stifle his horror. Then a new memory surfaces: the same footage played out in real life. And a chair. He remembers a chair right below his cage, and the man with the metal arm screaming until blood ran down his chin.

A wave of trepidation and protectiveness coils in his belly. An innate response clambers from his gut but manifests as a mere cough, distracting the men on the opposite side of the room.

The agent faces Steve and removes his vest and holsters. His angrier tone abates, but a belligerent veil remains. “I’m gonna borrow your fucktoy,” he says to the man with the metal arm. “Need to blow off some steam.” He, deposits his gear on the floor then strides toward Steve. He’s too close, hovering over Steve with his crotch in direct line of sight, and it’s only a moment before the agent is mashing soft, musky flesh in his face. A distant part of Steve hears the sound of clanking metal against metal.

“Be a good asset and get it hard.” Steve’s lips are parted by the agent’s warm flesh until his jaw gives way. The cock swells on his tongue and fingers dig into the back of his scalp, and his nose meets a thick nest of curls with every forceful thrust. It’s not long before his jaw starts cramping. Someone is snarling; Steve thinks it’s the metal-armed agent, but he’s not sure, his mind trapped on the erection plugging his throat. His stomach lurches as it triggers his gag reflex. The large shackles restrain him to the seat, leaving him next to defenseless, and he’s too weak to fight. He can do nothing but take it in silence. The agent’s hips stutter while pressed against his face, making it difficult for him to breathe, but he manages to suppress a gag at the pulsing streams splashing the back of his throat.

Steve's head is shoved away and he gasps like a fish out of water. “Not bad,” the agent breathlessly scoffs, tucking himself in and backing away. “Holds up well. There’s plenty for everyone. Make it quick, we got a debrief.” He gathers his gear and storms out with another agent on his tail.

The remaining agents release him from his bonds, only to force his incapacitated body to the ground and bend him over. A finger promptly stabs into his hole then curls, pressing against the sensitive spot inside. Steve clenches tight at the intrusion and lets out a shattered wail as pain shoots through every inch of his nerves. His cock grows hard and heavy beneath him, betraying his will.

Another agent is quick to drive his dick into Steve’s mouth, and he’s speared like a spit roast once the agent behind him rams his dry cock in, tearing his rim and grating his insides. Like a scorching blade carving him down the center, it’s unbearable. But he’s felt this before. A defiant glare starts to form on Steve’s face, but even the muscles in his face are slack, weak, and what little expression he manages is erased with every smeared drop of semen.

His hole, now slick and burning, has the agent’s hips plunging into him like a piston and obscene wet smacks echo noisily in the cell. Although every inch of Steve’s nerves is searing, he’s teetering on knife's point and it doesn't feel good. His vision goes hot white as a sharp electric current lances through his body, concentrating around his ass and the head of his cock. He’s groaning, convulsing with every pulse and hates it. His come trims the floor while getting drilled into like a jackhammer and the feeling wraps him in a heavy blanket of shame.

Then Steve feels the operative cant forward, finally pumping hot into his bowels, and the other soon follows, cock bottoming out against the back of his throat, spurting thick and bitter. Steve’s stomach is in knots, nauseated, his knees ache on the damp concrete, and once the agents dislodge themselves, Steve collapses to furl on his side. He hears breathing that’s not his own, and the clank of the magnetic cuff as it’s unlocked.

“Put your pet in its cage. Don’t worry, we left him good for you,” taunts one of the agents to the metal-armed man. “He gives stellar blow jobs, by the way.” Then the cell is emptied and all is quiet, except Steve’s own heart pounding in his ears and his heaving breaths.

Moments after, the pangs dull to a tolerable soreness and he unfurls a bit, spotting the old man in a suit, hands on his hips, scrutinizing him in the large window above. Then he sees the man with the metal arm marching toward him from a distant corner. Steve opens his mouth to call out a name, but like a nightmare, no sound escapes. He feels cool metal lift his arm and drag him across the floor before his eyelids flicker shut.

 

 

A slight but sudden drop of the cage jolts Steve out of a fitful sleep. No matter. He hasn’t had a full night's rest in years and with the passing of each day, sleep became more unfamiliar anyway.

Steve rolls onto his back as the cage is lowered, and once grounded, the metal-armed agent stares him dead in the eyes with a glare that could cut steel. The strong fist of his flesh hand is taut and white-knuckled around a cage bar, tight enough to break it. An angry line is etched on his forehead and dark shadows circle his hollow eyes, like he hasn’t slept in ages, too.

Steve’s chest is abruptly hijacked by a bleeding ache. Bucky. Christ, how could he have forgotten.

But Bucky didn’t spare the moment. “Spread your legs,” he says, his voice commanding and scornful. Steve shudders then swallows a lump in his throat, and a single word manages to creep past his dry, cracked lips in a rough whisper.

“Buck.”

Bucky’s expression wavers a bit and his fingers twitch. Steve hesitates. Does he…? He shoves it down and simply does as ordered. When Bucky tells him to touch himself, Steve licks a finger then circles it around his tender, pulverized flesh with a wince. His abused hole clenches on contact and Bucky dismisses his signs of discomfort. “Put the rest of it in,” he demands, but the tip is about all Steve can endure. He’s trying, but his asshole’s been banged to a pulp and he lets out a strained whimper.

The knuckles in Bucky’s flesh hand go impossibly whiter. “You don’t like it?”

“No--”

“You don’t,” Bucky affirms.

“No, that’s--that’s not it,” Steve grunts, forcing his finger further inside.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not even getting hard. You were hard for them.” He reaches into the cage and seizes Steve’s wrist, wrenching it out of the way. Bucky takes over, shoving his metal fingers into Steve’s ass and doesn’t take his time. There’s no attempt to assuage Steve’s pain nor clear his confusion, and every appeal may as well have fallen on deaf ears.

Cold fingers relentlessly stretch him until he’s stuffed by an entire fist. Bucky’s arm whirs, and Steve bellows at the metal plates shifting and practically mincing his insides. It’s heavy and hard in his guts, and the press of Bucky’s fist against his prostate sends a twitch through Steve’s aching cock.

“That’s it,” Bucky says, working his fist ruthlessly against that spot, staring as Steve winces, red-faced and gasping to an erection. “You let them fuck you and you liked every minute of it. You don’t care who, so long as you get yours.” His words sound rote, mechanized, but his eyes are wide and fearful.

“This isn’t you,” Steve pants. “You’re J-James Bu-Buch--you’re Bucky, this isn’t you!”

Bucky pulls out abruptly and Steve’s mouth opens in a silent cry. A thin string of semen dribbles down his shaft to his gaping hole, then his dick shrivels.

“Shh, shh,” Bucky says, raising his flesh hand to brush the sweat off Steve’s brow. He’s shaking, and Steve can’t help but press up into the gentle touch. “It’s okay, now. You’re mine, you’re not going anywhere. You’re safe.”

“Bucky,” says Steve, his voice cracking. But before he can say anything else, the steel doors part and a team of techs, accompanied by two STRIKE members, rush into the room.

The STRIKE operatives seize Bucky, and he writhes in their grasp as a needle slips into the side of his neck. His body goes limp, and he’s towed across the concrete and out the door.

Desperation and panic bash at Steve’s heart. One of the techs opens his cage, and the rest proceed to drag him out in the same manner. Looking overhead, Steve sees Director Pierce standing, face stern and arms folded across his chest. Steve doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to stave off his captors. Instead, he stares back in innate defiance until Pierce shrinks out of sight.

They bring him into a room where the walls are plated with steel. Tubes and wires are attached to various tech, which link to a forbidding black chair adorned with mechanical devices. Steve is hauled into the seat, heart thumping behind his ribs, muscles drawn taut. He knows something is coming. But he can’t--can’t remember--

The headpiece descends. Pain snaps through him, and a rising memory shatters.

 

 

He wakes to a blinding light and the smell of antiseptic clinging in his nostrils. A friendly-looking, bespectacled man draped in a white lab coat leans in above him. “Ah, you’re awake. Just one more dose, then it’s time to suit up, Captain.”

A quick pinch at his elbow, and soon after he’s donning a black suit. He stares at the red-skulled octopus patched on the left arm. The friendly-looking man sweeps out the barely-there wrinkles over the shoulders of his suit, and he--is he a captain? he must be--he spots a shield leaning against the wall, its emblem identical to the arm patch and he shivers at the sight of it.

“There. Good as new. Right this way.” He’s lead out of the room into a spacious vault, where Director Pierce stands centered among a backdrop of agents.

“Glad you could make it,” Pierce says, straight-faced and all business as he proceeds to sermonize about duty, overturning policy, and changing the world. A sinister undercurrent stirs within the space and the Captain begins to feel a bit unsettled. Conflicted. The details as to why escape him, but his gaze remains stoically fixed on Pierce.

“The world will be set as it should be, with order established,” says Pierce, his words brimming with revolutionary ardor, his demeanor and pace cool and composed as he closes in on the Captain. “And you are a valuable asset to a greater purpose. You make one hell of an army.” He carefully adjusts the collar of the Captain’s pristine black uniform, before trailing a hand to his shoulder. Thin lips spread into a warm amiable smile. “You are the perfect soldier. And you will reap substantial rewards for your service.”

After giving a firm pat on the shoulder, Pierce backs away. “But for now, rest. A functional, efficient soldier needs adequate sleep.”

Sleep.

For all his emotional bleakness, there’s a fleeting sense of comfort to that word.

As he’s ushered into a cold dark chamber, his eyelids grow heavy and his footfalls become slightly languid, but it doesn’t thwart his concentration on the two tanks in front of him. One is empty, but the other standing alongside it contains a man with dark hair framing his blue-tinted, frost-decked face, and his metal hand is pressed against the glass. His eyes are shut in deep slumber.

The Captain steps into the empty tank, where it’s significantly colder than the rest of the chamber, and the leaden door closes with a reverberating slam. The man in the white lab coat vanishes from view and he’s left with a reflection of a stranger against the glass, blond, strong-jawed and handsome, before the biting ice completely numbs him from the inside out.

Then everything is black.


End file.
